Similarly to my traverse of the Aonach Eagach ridge last year, the scale of the perilous drops aside me were hidden by cloud.   
May Day weekend 2000. A late dash to Scotland after work on the Friday. A long and dark post-midnight walk to the Ben Alder cottage bothy. A cracking day in the hills on the Saturday, begging Beinn Bheoil (1019m) and Ben Alder (1148m) as part of The Great Scottish Climb charity event.               <div class="kg-gallery-image"> <img decoding="async" src="https://blogstouks01.z33.web.core.windows.net/2023/08/2013_03_04_22_06_40.jpg" width="1827" height="1199" loading="lazy" alt srcset="https://blogstouks01.z33.web.core.windows.net/2023/08/1_2013_03_04_22_06_40.jpg 600w, https://blogstouks01.z33.web.core.windows.net/2023/08/2_2013_03_04_22_06_40.jpg 1000w, https://blogstouks01.z33.web.core.windows.net/2023/08/3_2013_03_04_22_06_40.jpg 1600w, https://blog.iannelson.uk/content/imag es/2020/04/2013_03_04_22_06_40.jpg 1827w" sizes=“auto, (min-width: 720px) 720px” /> ...
Messing about on Stanage Edge, near Hathersage.       
Cona’ Mheall (978m) Another long walk in and only a single munro bagged, in the mist and rain. Yuk!  
On which we climbed Beinn a’Chleibh (916m) and Ben Lui (1130m).        
A misty day scrambling along the Aonach Eagach ridge.        
Bidean nam Bian (1150m) Stob Coire Sgreamhach (1072m) Bruce’s last Munro.
A hot spring day taking in a circuitous route around the Glen Lyon four. Carn Gorm (1029m) Meall Garbh (968m) Carn Mairg (1041m) Meall nan Aighean (Creag Mhor) (981m)
Meall nan Tarmachan, 1044m / 3425ft    
“You seem to be going awfully fast,” said the perspiring southern lady on the footpath to Stac Pollaidh, “would you pull me up?” I smiled politely, but in reality I was both shocked and pleased to have realised that over the course of the week, my mental and physical fitness had increased, and here I was, alone, practically jogging towards the impressive sight that is Stac Pollaidh. ...
I first wandered up the long track toward Beinn Dearg a year ago, when Daffy insisted we leave it at an early stage and clamber up through snow-covered heather onto a large rounded ridge which seemed to go on forever before finally nearing the summit of Eididh nan Clach Geala. Fortunately no such deviations were ordered this year, which was just as well since I was on strangely good form viz-a-viz walking, and enjoyed setting a pace up the stream-crossed path until it eventually disappeared, at which point I reverted to my more familiar snail’s pace. ...
Sunday a handful of us bagged Ben Wyvis, where apparently Martin Moran was avalanched during his record breaking winter munro expedition. Our trip up to the top was thankfully less life-threatening, with the only dangers coming from the many snowball fights, or riding over rocks during the pitifully slow bum-slide back to the soggy foothills. But the sun was out in force, as were the views. It was a good start to the holiday proper, and served as a gentle reminder how unfit I am, as I soon found myself lagging behind all and sundry during the ascent. ...
Boy, do I let myself in for some exhausting pastimes. I could have spent the day at home, slumped in front of the web, but nope, not today. Gulvain is a right royal pain. A “shy hill”, according to the books, which basically means you have to walk for miles before you reach its foot. Then you have a steep walk upwards before reaching what, admittedly, is a fairly enjoyable ridge. Or at least I imagine it would be were it possible to see more then a few metres ahead of you. Seeing a trig point emerging out of the mist on an otherwise barren landscape is quite a spooky experience – I felt vaguely akin to one of the monkeys at the start of 2001 – A Space Odyssey, surrounding that vast solid pillar inquisitively. But there wasn’t time to peruse on this for too long, as the evening was drawing in and we had a date to keep in Ullapool. ...
Brucey’s protective, cautionary side does not show itself often, but it’s undoubtedly there. One of his female housemates once commented that “he really looks after us in the flat, he’s like the Dad of the house!” and I can now sort of imagine how this is true. I get the feeling people are likely to misrepresent him as being some kind of mad Scottish loony, especially when up on the munros, risking his life for the sake of a quick bag or a bit of a laugh, but I’m beginning to think that under the “ker-azy” exterior, he’s alarmingly sensible. Posit: we’re at the bottom of a gorgeous snow-covered gully on Buachaille Etive Mor, and I’m gagging to don some crampons (lent to me by the man himself), and get going. But Brucey has other ideas: ...
I still can’t quite believe that we all woke up at 6:30am on a Saturday. But evidently it happened. The journey up to Killin was fantastic, truly amazing. All the floods, cloud, and rain had been left behind in England – we had clear open skies and sunny snow-topped peaks. Bruce quickly ran out of superlatives, and decided to start inventing more, declaring this to be a ‘riptastic’ day. We had to park up occasionally during the journey to take more photos, the scenery was just so fine. ...